A/N: This story closely follows the book, so expect to see the same sorts of paragraphs, conversation, etc.

WARNING: none, right now.

DISCLAIMER: All the characters, but the Melvilles, and the Harry Potter world belong to J.K. Rowling.

Chapter One

The Boy Who Lived

Mr. and Mrs. Melville, of number twenty-six, Wisteria Walk, were very proud to say that they were not perfectly normal. Actually, they were further from normal than most of their neighbors assumed. They were the couple that were more than pleasant; they were friendly. They were nice to people, started conversations and laughed very easily. They were warm and inviting and enjoyed hosting parties with their children's friends and their friends, and just having a good time together.

Mr. Melville was the owner of a small advertizing company called Paradigm Marketing, mostly specializing in computer generated ads for anything from toothpaste to t-shirts. He was a short, thin man with a large nose and small, bright blue eyes hidden behind rectangular glasses. His hair was short and thick, a mousy brown color, and his lips were always cracked when he smiled, which was often. Mrs. Melville was taller, and plumper than her husband, but not obese by any measure. She had curves which followed to her hair, curled dark and long to her back, usually held back in a tie of some sort. Her eyes were wide and brown, and her ears were slightly large, keen for conversation, but hardly ever gossip. The Melvilles had four children, two boys and two girls. The oldest was named Gillian, the second oldest was Clyde, the third was Annabel, then, finally, little Lyle.

The Melvilles were a happy, loving family with most of what they wanted. Sure, Mrs. Melville complained about the neighbors ever so often, and wished she had a nice, larger home in the country, so her children would stop bickering in their rooms, but she and her family were content. Unbeknownst to their neighbors, however, the Melvilles had a very deep secret that they did not share with the people around them. There was no shame of it, but it was simply illegal for the neighbors to find out about their blood. The Melvilles were a magical family. Mr. Melville was a halfblooded wizard who had fallen in love with muggle ways since he was very small, and Mrs. Melville was a pureblood, born in Canada to a Mrs. and Mr. Tucker, and married Mr. Melville when she was eighteen years old, visiting her grandmother in England. They delved into the muggle world as much as the magical. The children went to muggle primary school before Hogwarts, and they told the neighbors it was an elite boarding school in Scotland that the father had graduated from, giving them an almost immediate go ahead.

When Mr. and Mrs. Melville woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday morning our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside that suggested anything out of the ordinary to the muggles around them. However, they knew from the former night's events, that it was anything but normal. Mr. Melville had taken the day off work, a personal day as he explained it, and dressed casually with a nice sweater and trousers, putting on sneakers as he always did, just in case he wanted to take a walk, and Mrs. Melville chatted at him excitedly as she waited for the children to come down for a nice breakfast of waffles and bacon and eggs.

She opened the window to let a large, tawny owl flutter inside, hopefully unbeknownst to the neighbors around them, to get a letter from her sister-in-law, news she already knew.

At a quarter passed eight, the kids were awake. Lyle was in his high chair, nibbling at bits of cut up waffles that his mother stuck onto the tray, while his father helped his three year old sister cut up her own. Clyde, five at the time, was finishing up homework that he didn't have to turn in until Thursday, and Gillian was reading, until her mother took away the book. No reading at the table until the food is gone. She was seven at the time.

The kids would stay home from primary school this Tuesday. Mrs. Melville had called the school and reported them to be sick, to keep them home and celebrate a very special day. Today was the first day without the menacing Dark Lord looming over their lives, threatening their wellbeing. This was the best day that the family had ever experienced, although the children were too young to fully understand. Of all of them, Gillian was the oldest, and was trying to understand properly. All she knew was that a child no older than her little brother Lyle, had defeated the Dark Lord, whose name was not to be spoken in their house. Why, she wasn't sure. A name was a name. But she did suppose 'Voldemort' sounded much more frightening than 'Bobbie'.

After breakfast, the children broke away to go play. Gillian went to read in her room, complaining about Clyde and Annabel making too much noise, as they screamed and chased each other, one claiming to be the Boy-Who-Lived, the other, the Dark Lord, entertaining themselves with the story much more than the parents expected. As per usual for days after breakfast, though this day with Mr. Melville at home, she left him in charge, instead of Gillian, as she changed her little Lyle then put him in a stroller to take him outside. She enjoyed her time with her little ginger baby, and he enjoyed them as well. He cooed and grabbed at passing trees, and the neighborhood ladies would gush and chat with Mrs. Melville, always with pleasant smiles, some less proper than others. On this day, she was only stopped occasionally to chat as she rerouted toward the right, to Privet Drive instead of the park. She'd go through and circle the cul de sac, and return home, instead of taking time on the swings. A short walk, really.

She noticed from the corner of her eye, a cat reading a map, but did not pay too much attention to it, as a woman stopped her to talk again. The woman, a Mrs. Thompson, was a nice woman, but far more into gossip than Mrs. Melville enjoyed. Still, she smiled and nodded, and discussed what she said was 'odd behavior' from some neighbors around her.

"Three trash bags, could you believe! Three! What on earth could they be doing that would warrant so much waste, I have no idea. But I haven't seen their pesky cat around lately."

"I'm sure they're just cleaning the attic, Gloria."

"Cleaning the attic? In November? Very odd, don't you think?"

Luckily, Lyle began to fuss, which gave Mrs. Melville an excuse to keep on moving. "He likes the motion." She explained, and waved as she stepped away, relaxing when she was at a safe distance and rolling her eyes. She cooed at her son what an annoying busy-body that woman was, yes she was. Lyle replied with gibberish that no one could understand, but he was pretty certain of himself, so she just smiled and continued on her walk.

On her way, she had to pause to allow the man of one Number Four to back out from the drive way. She gave a wave, but he didn't seem to notice, and just went on her way. Of course, from what she heard about the family, she wasn't too surprised. They were a pleasant couple, the family from number four. They were fixated on impressing others and being pleasant, big on impressions. Mrs. Melville had no interest in hosting parties for strangers just to look rich or well-maintained, or pleasant. She hosted parties with friends, so they could chat and laugh and enjoy each other, instead of tying so hard and making everything so stale and stiff. Still, she gave Mrs. number four a wave as she passed by the quaint home. She didn't want to be rude, after all.

As she knew, the family on number four had a small child as well, a boy around Lyle's age. She had seen the child before. He was chubby and had very doting parents, perhaps a little too doting. With what she knew about the parents, she had little doubt the child would grow very spoiled if they did not have more children to dote on. Children were less spoiled with siblings, as she saw it. Still, the child was adorable. Very chubby, taking after his father, most obviously. That man hardly even had a neck, and if he got any larger, she had the suspicion that he would have his own orbit. That was a rude thing to think, and she didn't express it, but she didn't see why the man didn't take care of himself better. Mrs. number four, however, was exactly the opposite. She needed to eat more. She was far too thin, but Mrs. Melville was sure that long neck of her's was perfect for spying on the neighbors over her fence.

Like the muggles around her, it was hard not to notice owls swooping around the skies. It was even harder not to notice that they were doing so during the day, which was generally not a usual thing for muggles to see. As much as anyone, Mrs. Melville understood the excitement, but she also understood that muggles were not as stupid as most wizards supposed they were. She paused as she watched two fly over her head, then glanced to the women poking their heads out of windows, or the children pausing on their way to school to look up and point and discuss. News was flooding. People were contacting each other, loved ones, to tell them the wonderful news. Even though she was not involved in the struggle, Mrs. Melville felt a weight off her shoulders. Being a pureblood living a partial muggle-life put her at risk, definitely.. She had been frightened, but now? She stepped with a light hop in her heel, she smiled with an added brightness, and she was not so scared that her children would grow in a world they could be persecuted in.

So she smiled, when she saw those owls, and she smiled when she saw the muggles, confused as they were, point up at them and whisper to each other. They were safe as much as she was.

The Melvilles spent the majority of the day playing games with one another. They played in the backyard, chasing each other. Mr. Melville had taken it upon himself to tell them the story of how one year old Harry Potter defeated the terrible Dark Lord, You-Know-Who. Of course, most of it was assumption and for show, but it entertained the children, anyway. Even Gillian was fascinated, pulled away from her books to listen in on the story as he told it, and Mrs. Melville bounced little Lyle on her knee as she smiled at her husband's tale.

She had read in the Daily Prophet that Mr. and Mrs. Potter had died. It was a real shame. The couple had been kind, as she heard. She hadn't met the family, but she knew a few people who knew more people, who knew the Potters, and they had been a nice family. And though their child was brilliant enough to defeat the Dark Lord, she hoped he would be raised in a proper home, that treated him like a child, and not a war-hero. Was he not a child? He was a bit over one, and she couldn't imagine if it had been her son that had defeated the Dark Lord, at such a young age. What would his siblings have thought? She wasn't sure, but she knew it would be complicated to raise such an important figure. Was he going to family? Did the Potters have any family? Mrs. Melville knew that Mr. Potter was the last in the line, beyond his son, and she didn't know Mrs. Potter's maiden name.. perhaps she had family. Parents, or a sibling.. Or maybe the child would go to a godparent..?

Either way, she hoped he would grow, knowing how heroic his parents had been.

After dinner, the children were put to bed with stories of Harry Potter on their minds. Mrs. Melville sang to her youngest son as she danced with him on her hip, before she put him down to sleep, and exited the room, quiet as she slipped downstairs to join her husband in front of their muggle television (as opposed to a wizard's television,) to watch the very muggle news.

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping patterns." The newscaster then grinned lightly. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," the weatherman Jim began, "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Melville tsked as he stared at the television's changing screen, watching the weather pan out through the week. "People should be more careful. I understand celebrating, but the muggles have noticed.. They'll start to wonder, do you think?" But Mrs. Melville disagreed with a shake of her head.

"They'll forget about it in a week when things to back to normal, Richard. We deserve to celebrate after that man was defeated, finally."

"I understand that, but shooting stars? Really? At least do fireworks. People aren't suspicious about fireworks. They just look at their flecks of light and it's all alright. People like fireworks. Thousands of shooting stars is just unnecessary."

"A parade is necessary."

He grunted and they said no more on the subject.

After the program was over, they turned off the television and went up to bed. Mrs. Melville went to the bathroom to take off her make up and jewelry while Mr. Melville sat upon the end of the bed and took off his shoes and socks. He rubbed his sore feet as he chatted and laughed with his wife about that pesky Mrs. Thompson, thinking that her neighbors had murdered their cat in three separate bags. What use was that, they wondered? But bored house wives seemed very imaginative. Probably, as Mr. Melville stated, from those romance novels they clung to when the children napped. Mrs. Melville snorted and chuckled.

They dressed for bed and kissed before turning Mrs. Melville turned her lamp off and curled up to sleep, as Mr. Melville adjusted his glasses and flipped through pages of his book.

He got to sleep around midnight, but not before seeing a flicker of light from his window in the street. Given all the excitement today, however, he thought nothing on it, and simply put his glasses on his bedside table, turned off the lamp, and fell into a very nice sleep.

Unbeknownst to the couple, the dimming of light on their road had been a complete lack of light on Privet Drive. Every streetlamp on the cul de sac flicked off with each click of one Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore's charmed cigarette lighter. Privet Drive was sickeningly quiet as the Headmaster discussed sensitive subjects with one Professor Minerva McGonagall, the same of which had been the cat Mrs. Melville had seen earlier that day. If any muggle were to look out upon the pair, they would likely be very, very confused upon seeing them. Professor Dumbledore was an old man with a long, silver beard. He was thin and tall, and wore such odd clothing, for muggles to see – long robes with a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. Even in the dim light, his bright, pale blue eyes sparkled behind half-moon glasses that set upon a crooked nose.

He was a very odd sight to see, no doubt, if anyone beyond Professor McGonagall were to see him.

The cat-turned-woman was stiff and cold, her own glasses matching the marks that had been on the cat's face. Her graying black hair was pulled in a tight bun at the back of her head, and her lips were thin and tight. She, too, wore a cloak, emerald, that would confuse any neighbors on this quiet Privet Drive.

The two discussed together for a good while, changing words, expressions, but they stayed where they were, on the corner of the dull, quiet street. Their voices were not hushed, but were not heard, and the street was still so very quiet. Why were they here? The woman was concerned, but showed it only in the tightness of her brow and lips, as she asked the Headmaster a tiring question. Were the rumors true? Did he know what they were saying, about how the monster was finally defeated? Did he know? When he didn't answer, she expanded. The Potter couple. They're dead. And with a bow of his head, the rumors were confirmed. But how did the child survive? Harry, just a babe. Well, no one knows that, do they? Not even the great Albus Dumbledore.

The man took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very old watch with twelve hands and no numbers; instead, it had little planets moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, however, because he put it back into his pocket and stated, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

Affirmation, though Professor McGonagall did not exactly know why, and stated as such. She did not approve of the answer. Dumbledore came to one Privet Drive to bring young hero Harry Potter to his aunt and uncle. A Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, who lived on number four, Privet Drive. Immediately, the woman protested. These people were far from suitable to raise Harry Potter. She'd seen that tyrant son kicking his mother, screaming for sweets. No place for the savior of the wizarding world, certainly. But that was exactly the point for Professor Dumbledore. No child should be famous before they could even walk, even talk, and without a proper argument against that, McGonagall did closed her mouth.

The discussion changed.

Said discussion, however, was quickly quieted when a low rumbling broke the silence around them. It steadily grew louder and the professors looked back and forth on the street for some sign of the vehicle. As it swelled to a roar, they looked up – a large motorcycle fell out of the clouds and landed on the road in front of him. However, large as it was, it did not compare to the man that sat on it. He was perhaps just under twice as large as a normal man. His hair was in tangles, long as his beard, and his brows were heavy. His hands were large, arms were beefy, and tucked between them was a bundle of blankets that pressed against his large chest.

"Hagrid," the old professor breathed in relief. "At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the man, and he climbed off the motorcycle as carefully as a man of his stature could ever hope to achieve. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got him, sir."

Him, of course, would be young Harry Potter. He was sound asleep in the giant's arms as the adults discussed above him. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of cloth. Inside, hardly visible, little Harry kept sleeping. Under a tuft of dark black hair over his forehead, they could just barely see a curiously shaped cut, jagged, like lightening.

"Is that where –?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," Dumbledore answered. "He'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well – give him here, Hagrid – we'd better get this over with."

The old professor took the child into his arms and turned toward the Dursleys' house, but was stopped by Hagrid.

"Could I – could I say goodbye to him, sir?" he asked. He bent his large head over the tiny infant and placed a very scratchy kiss on his forehead. He stood up again, then bumbled into a howled sob, which was quickly hushed by McGonagall.

"You'll wake the muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," the giant sobbed. He took a large handkerchief and buried his face onto it, dabbin at the wet. "But I c-c-can't stand it – Lily an' James dead – an' poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," her voice was a sharp whisper, as she patted her friend onto his arm. Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall in front of number four, and walked to the front door. He laid harry down onto the doorstep as gently as he could, took the letter he had written to explain things from his cloak, tucked it inside the blankets, then came back to the other two. For a long moment, the three stood still and looked at the child. Hagrid's shoulders shook with suppressed sobs, Professor McGonagall blinked over and over again, and the happy little twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have faded.

"Well," Dumbledore finally broke the silence, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

Hagrid agreed, departed from them after goodbyes to take the motorcycle back to Sirius Black. Wiping his eyes on his jacket sleeve, he swung himself onto the motorcycle, kicked the engine into life, and with a roar, it rose into the air, and off to where it came from.

Dumbledore's farewell to Professor McGonagall was met with a blowing of her nose. He turned and walked back down the street. On the corner, he stopped to take out the charmed lighter from his pocket. He clicked it just once, and the lined lamps snapped back on. Privet Drive glowed in the light, and he could make out that same tabby cat, slinking away from the street. From his position, he could just make out the child he had left on the doorstep.

"Good luck, Harry," he muttered, then turned on his heel and his cloak swished, and he was gone.

A breeze swept and rustled the neat hedges on Privet Drive. The street remained silent, tidy, and calm under the sky that turned slowly from dark to light. Harry Potter squirmed in his sleep, still on that doorstep, one hand closed on the letter Dumbledore had left. He knew nothing but sleep, nothing but innocence. He was no one on the doorstep of number four, Privet Drive. He was not a savior and not a hero. He was an infant, sleeping quietly until Mrs. Dursley screamed him awake as she opened her door, to put out the milk bottles, a scream that was whispered about by neighbors and traveled to the ears of one Mrs. Melville in number twenty-six, Wisteria Walk. The child could not possibly know the stories of him that were already being whispered to children, or the clinks of drinks as the adults whispered their cheers.

"To Harry Potter – the boy-who-lived!"